I came by to see if he was okay. Obviously, he wasn’t.”
“Did you know he was under investigation?”
“Billy?” she said in disbelief. “For what?”
“Art theft,” the detective said.
“That’s impossible,” Schiffer said, folding her arms.
“It’s not only possible, but true. Did he have any enemies?”
“Everyone loved him.”
“Did he need money?”
“I don’t know anything about his financial affairs. Billy didn’t talk about it. He was very ... discreet.”
“So he knew things about people?”
“He knew a lot of people.”
“Anyone who might want him dead? Like Sandy Brewer?”
“I don’t know who that is.”
“I thought you were good friends.”
“We were,” Schiffer said. “But I hadn’t seen Billy in years. Not until I moved back to New York nine months ago.”
“I’m going to need you to come to the station for questioning.”
“I need to call my publicist first,” she said firmly. The reality of Billy’s death hadn’t hit her yet, but this was going to be a mess. She and Billy would likely end up on the front page of The New York Post tomorrow.
Early the next morning, Paul Rice was trawling through the Internet when he came across the first item about Billy Litchfield’s death. He didn’t connect Billy to the Brewer scandal, so the news didn’t have a big impact.
But then he saw several small pieces from The New York Times to The Boston Globe, stating that Billy Litchfield, fifty-four, a sometime journalist, art dealer, and society walker, had been discovered dead in his apartment the evening before. The coverage in the Daily News and the Post was much more extensive. On the covers of both newspapers were glamour shots of Schiffer Diamond, who had discovered the body, and a photograph of Billy in a tux. There were other photographs as well, mostly of Billy with various socialites and one of him arm in arm with Mrs. Louise Houghton. The police were investigating, suspecting foul play.
Paul turned off his computer. He considered waking his wife and giving her the news, but realized she might start crying. Then he would be stuck in an emotional scene not of his own making and therefore of an unpredictable length. He decided to tell her later instead.
Hurrying through the lobby, he spotted several photographers just outside the door. “What’s going on?” he demanded of Roberto.
“Someone died, and Schiffer Diamond found the body.”
Billy Litchfield, Paul thought. “But why are they here? Outside One Fifth?” Roberto shrugged. “Never mind,” Paul barked, and knocked on Mindy’s door. She opened it a crack, trying to keep Skippy, who was barking and jumping on her leg, inside and away from Paul. For the moment, Paul had gained the upper hand in the building; Mindy had to agree to keep Skippy out of the lobby in the morning and evening when Paul would be passing through. “What is it now?” she said, glaring at him with hatred.
“That,” Paul said, motioning to the paparazzi outside.
Mindy came out without the dog, closing the door behind her. She was still in her cotton pajamas but had thrown on a chenille robe and flip-flops. “Roberto,” she said. “What is this?”
“You know I can’t keep them away. The sidewalk is public property, and they’re entitled to be there.”
“Call the police,” Paul said. “Have them arrested.”
“Someone died, and Schiffer Diamond found the body,” Roberto repeated.
“Billy Litchfield,” Paul said.
Mindy gasped. “Billy?”
“I want something done about this,” Paul said, continuing his rant.
“Those photographers are blocking my point of egress, and I can’t get to my office. I don’t care how famous someone is, they have no right to disturb the regular workings of a building. I want Schiffer Diamond out.
And while we’re at it, we should remove Enid Merle. And Philip Oakland. And your husband. And you, too,” he said to Mindy.
Mindy’s face turned red. Her head felt like a rotten tomato that was about to explode. “Why don’t you move?” she screamed. “Ever since you moved into this building, there’s been nothing but trouble. I’ve had it with you. If I get one more complaint from you or your wife about this building, I don’t care what it costs, I don’t care if our maintenance goes up five thousand dollars a month, we will sue you and we will win. No one wants you here. I should have listened to Enid and broken up the apartment. It wouldn’t have made any difference — you’ve ruined the apartment with your stupid fish and your stupid computer equipment, and the only reason you’ve gotten away with it is because there aren’t any bylaws about goddamn fish.”
Paul turned to Roberto. “Did you hear that?” he said. “She’s threatening me.” He snapped his fingers. “I want you to write down what happened. I want her on notice.”
“I’m not involved,” Roberto said, backing away while gleefully noting that it wasn’t yet seven A.M., and already he had a bonanza of gossip. It was going to be a very interesting day.
“Fuck you,” Mindy said, jutting her head forward in rage. Instead of reacting to this insult, Paul Rice merely stood there, shaking his head at her as if she were utterly pathetic. This further fueled her anger. “Get out!” she screamed. “You and your wife. Pack your bags and leave this building.” Taking a breath, she added, “Immediately!”
“Mrs. Gooch,” Roberto said soothingly. “Maybe you should go back inside.”
“I will,” Mindy said, pointing her finger at Paul. “And I’m going to get a restraining order against you. You won’t be allowed to come within fifty feet of me. Try going in and out of the building when you can’t go through the lobby.”
“Go ahead,” Paul said with a taunting smile.“There’s nothing I’d like better. Then I can sue you personally. By the way, lawyers’ fees add up quickly, so you’d better plan on selling your apartment to cover them.” He would have continued, but Mindy went inside and slammed the door.
“Nice,” Roberto said.
Paul couldn’t tell if the doorman was kidding or genuinely on his side.
Either way, it was irrelevant. If need be, he could have Roberto fired.
Indeed, he could have all the doormen fired — and the super as well.
Putting his hands over his face, he ran through the paparazzi and got into his car.
Safely seated in the backseat of the Bentley, Paul took a deep breath and began texting instructions to his secretary. The confrontation with Mindy Gooch hadn’t disturbed him; having brilliantly arranged for Sandy’s arrest without implicating himself, Paul was feeling confident and in control. Sandy was back in the office, having been released on bail, but his concentration was shot. Eventually, Paul figured, there would be a trial, and Sandy might go to jail. When he did, the business would be all Paul’s, and this was only the beginning. The China deal was working brilliantly, and eventually, other countries might be forced to buy the algorithm as well. He could make a trillion dollars. It wasn’t so much these days. Most countries had deficits that size.
As the car headed up Park Avenue to his midtown office, Paul checked the numbers of various stock markets around the world and received a Google alert. Both he and his wife had been mentioned in an item about Billy Litchfield on some society website. Paul wondered again if he should have woken his wife to tell her — given all the fuss about Billy’s death, he may have miscalculated the importance of the information. But it was too late to go back to the building and too early for a phone call. He decided to send her a text.